


First Night

by MAXiMINalist



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Between Season 2 and 3, F/M, First Time, Non-Graphic Smut, Post-Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:02:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24721264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MAXiMINalist/pseuds/MAXiMINalist
Summary: Trevor Belmont did not count on saying "Yes" to her.
Relationships: Trevor Belmont & Sypha Belnades, Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12
Collections: One Shots, One-Shots, Others





	First Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gondalsqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gondalsqueen/gifts).



> Originally posted on Tumblr.

He did not count on horizons. He did not count on passing those horizons. He did not count on those horizons fading behind him. He did not count on living after Dracula. He did not count on this Speaker asking him to accompany her. He did not count on saying “yes.” He did not count of admitting, to himself, that it was life preferable to the lone-wolf drifter one he had before. 

When it came to thinking about those what-ifs, he counted on traveling… well, he knew he made a promise to the Elder Speaker to bring Sypha back. He thought he would simply take Sypha on the wagon and reunite her with her caravan, hopefully watch her run into her Grandfather’s arms, if the man was alive, and then ignore the old man’s plea for him to join the caravan, exchange one last barb with her, and simply slip out into his usual wanders and his defeat of Dracula will unraveled into drunken bar boasts.

He didn’t count on her hooking him along with her mission to rile up Dracula’s remaining demons. He counted simply on just wandering and letting the demons, the thrills, chance upon him. But now he was actively pursuing them, actively attracting them with efficiency and professionality. And some kind of “forever” with her was in store.

* * *

The first night on the back of the wagon, with the sacks as pillows and the scratchiness of the matting, she gazed at him. He suspected this was just going to happen ever since she took him by the arm. He often felt her eyes upon him even when she was throwing barbs at him. He felt that gaze in the library. Speakers possessed little taboos about sexual intercourse, and once on his wanders, he chanced upon three Speakers locked in intimacy in the middle of the forest. They had knowledge of contraceptions so there was no worries about suddenly becoming saddled with a hungry mouth. This was just about inevitable.

And the moment called her to lean close to him. But then he saw it, the crinkle of her nose as she receded from him, inches away from a kiss. It must be his shirt. It made his nose crinkle too. No wonder he was so grumpy all the time. He had been living in his filth for years and now he was sharing that with Sypha. If he didn’t do something, his filth would soon cling to her. Without a word, they settled on sleeping it through, sleeping through the unspoken.

* * *

The next morning, he was more aware that his shirt reeked of stale beer, dirt, and dead insects. So he climbed out and pulled off the musty tan thing as he stepped into the stream. 

He pulled off his trousers and dunked the articles in the river when he decided it was perhaps time he should wear the salvaged articles from the Belmont library. He let his old tan shirt drift down the river, its embroidered Belmont insignia flashing a farewell. 

The freshest Belmont-crested tunic from the crate was meteorite-dark, something worn two generations down. It suited his disposition, and it rendered him more professional than raggedly drifter. 

He was quite aware that Sypha had been observing him. He was trained to know when eyes were on him, especially Sypha’s eyes. He had heard her stir awake when he dunk himself into the water. She said no word as she watched him dress himself. He tried not to smirk. By the time he looked up, she wore that neutral expression but he could sense her disappointment. She wanted to see his flesh a while longer.

* * *

She did not recede from him that other night. He did wise by changing his clothes and ridding himself of the age-old stench. He didn’t want her memory store immortalizing any stench of his, not on a night like this. Her mouth had specks of the berries and the nuts from their last meal. There were a few mutters, an affirmation from her. There was a quake. Tumbles in the wagon. Her whispers. She was sweaty. She was floating above her. She smelled of the last brawl with a demon, the flying goat-ones with their explosive turds. She wore that same buoyant smirk when she rushed into that battle. Then her marble eyes were staring down on him, and her flesh drifted to his heartbeat where her shoulder scars seem to glare at him.

Those marbles of her eyes, those were what he remembered most when he woke up. It was the cool morning dew tingling on his skin that awakened him. Her thumbprints were still glued to his heartbeat. 


End file.
